Ninety Seven
by soundlines
Summary: 97 lives were lost today... This is Poland's story. "He didn't remember much. One second, he was fine, and the next, he was on the ground." Written in memory of this morning's loss of Poland's president and the entire Presidential delegation.


A/N: Don't usually write oneshots, but after the tragedy that occurred this morning in Poland, I feel obligated to. Just some fluff and friendship for Poland in his time of need.

Also, in my head-canon, nations can feel a bit uneasy or sick before a tragedy happens. Almost like a premonition… They can tell when their country or citizens are in danger.

Only my second story. Forgive the fail of it… I really haven't gotten a hang of it yet, and this feel kinda clunky and awkward. Still, I wanted to get this out today. I have to warn you though, there's a lot of blood in this one. And crying. T_T

--

He didn't remember much. One second, he was telling Mr. Kaczynski (his totally fabulous leader, like, of course) about how awesomely he defeated a really huge spider in his bedroom without breaking a nail, and the next, he was _on the ground_.

--

"And it was sooo hairy and creepy, right? But I didn't even flinch!! I just like… Like, bam! And it was flat." Kaczynski shook his head at the exuberant blonde, chuckling all the while. He replied, "Good for you, Feliks. You make our country proud."

The petite nation didn't catch the sarcastic undertone, and just boasted, "Iknowright?" He marveled at how amazing he was to be able to condense a whole sentence into one word. Taking a long sip of his water, Feliks gazed absently out of the plane's window, seeing the runway coming closer. "So we're like, almost there?"

Everyone nodded, and Kaczynski stated proudly, "The Mass will be beautiful indeed." "Totally, right? I invited Liet and Ivan and everyone!"

The plane's passengers flinched slightly at the mention of the Russian nation, but the blonde found it somewhat endearing that the imposing man had come, almost as if to silently make amends. After all, it was a day to remember Katyn, and a day to 'bury the hatchet,' so to speak.

A sudden shiver crept up the nation's spine, though he was wearing a rather thick sweater. He pulled a face and squirmed, shifting in his seat. The leather made the action louder than normal, and a few political figures seated nearby glanced his way nervously. Kaczorowski, his last president-in-exile throughout all those Soviet years, whispered, "Are you okay? Is someone hurt?" 

The blonde didn't reply. The uncomfortable feeling got worse, escalating into actual pain. He gasped, clutching his head and groaning. Kaczynski stood abruptly, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder.

Everybody had turned to look. The army chief, the deputy foreign minister, hell, even the members of Parliament had turned in their seats to stare. If he hadn't been in agony, Feliks would have been rather embarrassed.

The runway drew closer.

--

Toris milled about the thousands of people gathered for the service, admiring how strong Feliks' people were. Here they were, seventy years after Katyn, and ready to hold a Mass to celebrate how they had overcome such a tragedy. He shivered, adjusting his jacket. It was freezing, the Saturday morning air seeming even more crisp than usual.

The brunette felt a hand clap down onto his shoulder so hard his knees almost buckled, and he whirled around to see, of all people, Ivan. Half in surprise, half in unease, he exclaimed, "Oh, hello, Russia-san! It's rather… _unexpected_ to see you here."

The blonde looked down at him with a somber face. "We must make amends for hurting our comrades, da?" Violet eyes met his. "Well, o-of course!" There was a tense silence between the two, before the tall Russia asked, "What time will the service start?" Toris replied, "As soon as the presidential delegation gets here."

"Ah, Feliks will be with them, da?" The Lithuanian to his right nodded cautiously. "Good, I haven't seen my friend in a while. The plane will arrive any minute, yes, Toris?" "Probably."

They stood side-by-side in tolerable silence, neither of them willing to say more, when both nations started to notice that the crowd had been set on edge by… something. What it was, they didn't know.

It had started with a hysterical woman running to her husband and collapsing into his arms, telling him of some horrible news. Tragedy had befallen their country somewhere. The husband had informed his friends, who had told theirs the story, and pretty soon every citizen in the crowd was abuzz with the story. You could feel the tension and anxiety in the air, and Toris felt more than a little unsettled. Ivan's face, too, had lost its customary grin.

Gathering his courage, and reminding himself that it could all be a rumor, the brunette tapped the back of a woman in front of him, clearing his throat. She turned to him, eyes watering and rimmed with red. The nation felt a surge of pity.

'E-Excuse me miss," he stuttered out. His Polish was a bit rusty, but it would have to do. Cold air stinging his face, he called over the crowd's dull murmurs, "What's going on?"

"Oh, dear boy, it's horrible, it's just…" She trailed off, biting back a sob. Shakily, the woman forced out, "The presidential plane crashed. Near the runway. They say it hit the trees, and…"

Toris gave a sharp gasp, feeling tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away, whispering a small, "Thank you, miss."

Feliks, his best friend, his insane, girlish, chatty, funny, confident, handsome friend was on that plane. The girl put her hands around his own as Ivan leaned against his back, pressing cool lips to the back of his head. The Russian mumbled softly, "Were there any survivors?" "Not that I've heard. That was ninety-eight people… I can't believe it."

Toris screamed.

--

Feliks awoke. He was face-down in a patch of soil, and if the situation were of a lighter nature, he would have shrieked and made Liet get him clean clothes while he held back tears. As it were, tears were already pouring down his face.

Despite the pain coursing through every inch of his body, he slowly turned his head to see his surroundings. He soon wished he hadn't.

The wrecked remains of the plane were no more than ten feet from his face, and blood leaked out from the twisted metal. The forest where they had landed was silent. '_Forest_?' he thought blearily. Ah, that's right, near the runway… But isn't that where…?

They had crashed in the very place where Katyn occurred. '_How ironic_.' The blonde blacked out, eyes fluttering shut as the world spun dizzyingly.

--

Nearly ten minutes later, the nation stirred again, and immediately retched, sobbing as his chest seared. The pain hadn't subsided, if anything, it had doubled. "KACZYNSKI!" he shrieked, curling onto his side. He gasped profusely, just the effort of moving that much had exhausted him.

'_No_,' he thought, fist clenching in the soft dirt. '_I must stay awake_.'

He did, albeit barely. Black and green dots danced across his line of sight, and he coughed, a warm substance splattering onto the ground. He didn't want to look, for fear that it was what he feared. He already knew, really.

"KACZYNSKI!! GET _UP_, NOW! Come on…" His throat gave out. Feliks hoarsely whispered a scream.

--

Ivan stared out the window of the ambulance, praying so hard that he was oblivious to Toris' harsh sobs of agony. '_Poland will be okay, da? He has to be fine. Poland is very strong; Poland is strong like me_.'

He closed his eyes and hoped.

The sirens blared on.

--

Feliks opened his eyes, dulled slightly by a thin film of blood and another material he didn't want to think about. He didn't have the energy to scream or cough, not even to twitch his little finger. He was limp as a ragdoll when he was turned over and lifted up.

Wait, …_what_?

Someone lifted him onto a stretcher, gently, but he still felt like screaming as his spine burned and he coughed once more. Blood (he couldn't deny it anymore) stained his shirtfront, and he felt a trembling hand reach over to wipe it clean. He didn't have to look to know the owner of that hand, the soft cries in the background.

Toris. He tried to mumble the name, but it just came out as a sort of unintelligible whimper. He heard a little gasp, and a soft voice inquire, "F-Feliks?" A hand reached out and cupped his face. The small nation felt himself drifting away, and tilted his head (_God_, how much it took out of him) to kiss the soft palm.

Tears fell on his face.

--

The lights were bright, much too bright for his liking. Still, Feliks endured, squinting as he stirred from his slumber. As soon as he registered that he was in a hospital room, he also realized that there was a light tugging sensation on his head. He moaned, wanting it to stop, but not having the energy to make it happen.

Toris gasped, shakily whispering, "F-Feliks?" The motions stopped, and Feliks found that the Lithuanian had been brushing his hair. For some inexplicable reason, the blonde felt his eyes water, and he began to sob violently, half shrieking when the nurses came in.

They forced him down, placing an oxygen mask on his face, covering his nose and mouth. He fought them, forgetting the pain that shot through every fiber of his being, and screaming, "_LIET_! WHERE IS HE? WHERE'S MY PRESIDENT?? LIET!!" Toris gave him a sober look, his face not betraying anything. As the nation tried to suck in another breath, he felt his lungs fill with the gas, and he couldn't speak. He drifted off.

--

Toris walked out wearily into the hallway outside. Nearly every nation had gathered, and all had their heads bowed in respectful silence. Liechtenstein was weeping silently against her brother's sleeve; Switzerland's jaw was set firmly as he rubbed her back. America, Italy, and Korea were uncharacteristically silent. Even France was still, cerulean eyes watering ever-so-slightly.

Above an empty seat was a television screen, showing a live feed of the crash site. The screen cut back to the reporter, and though it was muted, the message was clear. Toris said loudly, breaking the quiet, "Why the _fuck_ are you watching this?"

Everyone jumped, but only a few looked at the brunette after his uncharacteristic outburst. Ivan approached him, silently embracing him as he cried. The terrible images continued, until Feliciano, fed up, grabbed a vase from the table next to him and hurled it at the screen. He didn't miss.

Pieces of glass clinked to the ground as the broken device fizzed and sparked. Nurses and orderlies rushed in to clean up the mess, sweeping up the pieces on the floor as the furious Italian panted.

Poland began to shriek again, this time a sound of pain and sorrow. Nobody dared approach the room as the muffled noises died down.

It was the tenth of April.

--

YES I KNOW IT SUCKS. T_T Like I said, second story, don't flame please.

…Well, I cried like a baby while writing this.

Expect updates on IAS soon, and please, let's pray for the Polish people. They shouldn't have to grieve alone.


End file.
